I can’t remember the sex. Though, there must have been some. We were always fighting about it. I wanted more, faster, harder; she wanted to treat me beautifully. She wanted slow, relaxed, at her pace. She was attracted to and absolutely hated the whore in me. Entranced by my sexual freedom, my open sensuality and strong will, she made a pointed plot to engage and she hoped, tame the energy within. Thing was, she was one of three lovers, a fact that shifted the pleasure rift between she and I, but left me more time to dally with others. Those were my years of polyamory.
So, since I couldn’t have her while I was being had by them, we drank. We drank with sensual commitment that at this moment makes me long for a lover with whom to drink – to excess. We started in the woods, at a womyn’s festival and a fifth of Southern Comfort. The nice thing about drinking in the woods is the sense of safety. Drink and walk and get loud, wandering along paths through light and dark. A world filled with strangers and a few acquaintances, but without the judgment one might find wandering along the streets (unless you were in Mayberry, sans Barney). We tipped the bottle between us, laughing and singing and sometimes falling to the ground. It’s still amazing how you can fall down drunk and roll over for the next swig.
I can’t honestly remember how we got back to the tent or even getting to sleep. What I remember was the next morning at breakfast. The tables were filled with remnant fear from the night before. Womyn spoke of torrential rains that flooded their tents, thunder that shook the ground, loosening poles and collapsing canvas atop them as they knelt huddling in the center (in prayer). I laughed; first because I thought they were kidding. Then at their reaction to the storm (as though they could pray away the hatefulness I had witnessed in an instant – I know it could be). Finally, the most joyous bit was that I had missed it all. I was sleeping – deeply. When my grrl arrived at breakfast to hear the stories and feel the stares (I had voiced my skepticism), she just looked at me and we shared a knowing smile.
That was the story of our first week together. Over the next year, we spent more evenings drinking beyond measure, laughing and crawling about, having discussions that slipped free more easily with lubrication and were received less fitfully. The challenges were less biting, judgments less intense, and rest more complete after a night of libations. The sex was limited or absent, at least from this, my primary relationship. (Or else, all I can remember are the fights and when it wasn’t going well).
Moving in together pushed forward the issues we could laugh about drunk to those we would fight about sober. And I stopped drinking. Always a bad plan when you are in relationship with a drunk. That amber colored glass keeps one’s vision clear (inside the illusions designed). Sober, there is too much to see, to feel, and to regret.
She kept drinking. She grew angry, disappointed, and hateful. We had the tools, but like toddlers, instead of using them to remake the relationship, we merely threw them at the problems. Our anger increased to a joint frenzy so that we openly plotted the demise of the other. We became quite adept at the “this is how I will kill you” discussions. The world was painful and we were the chief cause.
She left. It was horrible. Years later, I called to talk to her and she told me she was still mad at me.
I moved on. There were so many lessons to learn, so much of life to recover, and way more sex to be had. But, I never have found anyone else to drink with, like that. Maybe I don’t really look. I think about it. Imagine fucking, riding atop my lover with tequila bottle in hand; taking that shot from a belly button. I think I know better. If I want to drink that much, there will be consequences. Ones I have no interest in reliving. So, most of my next lovers were in recovery, dry drunks. Same issues – less fun.
Me, I still drink. I just do it alone. Mostly. Occasionally I call a friend to share a special bottle of wine or new liquor. But still, sometimes I miss a partner who drinks, for fun (and what fun may be).
All acts of Love and Pleasure…